


We Can Be the Generation Who Learns How to Love

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Dave Strider, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Gen, Humanstuck, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mute Dave Strider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: A tale of romance between two pairs set against the backdrop of a time and place where magic, which is very real, is condemned. The rebellious artist meets an enigmatic too-good-to-be-fake magician. The outspoken author meets a fashionable seamstress."This humble soul loved, and that was all."—Victor Hugo





	

**Author's Note:**

> Damn that summary sucked. Anyhow, here's something new. I'm currently tinkering with it, so it won't update as quickly as some of the others. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy it. As per usual, I have no clue if it'll actually get finished, but I plan on finishing it. Keep an eye out on this note, because I'll update it as needed. The title is from [**No Matter Where You Are**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6_-JoC8jpw), by Us the Duo and from _The Book of Life_.

Fairy tales are absolute bullshit. Most stories are, too. They're this idyllic fantasy meant to distract us from the fact that our lives are an absolute pile of slowly decaying shit. That's it. Period. Stories and fantasy exist as mindless drivel; they're the opium that started the war. Pure horse shit. Sure, any two-bit fucker can pick up a good story and run with it. But it takes nothing less than some sort of divine intervention to actually make life anything like a polished, carefree tale.

At least, that's what you've always thought.

And, as you sit on a worn-out community center sofa, with the everyday cacophony of others going about their routines, this idea only seems to reinforce itself. You tap your foot to the beat of a steady waltz. You stare at the wall. You play with the lint in your pocket, rolling it into a small, loose ball.

Another day is going to pass, and it will be just as goddamned boring as the next. And it will be as goddamned boring as the one before it, too. That's all there is to existing, right? You go through pre-programmed motions, dodge anyone asking you why the _hell_ you never say anything, and stifle any traces of your natural magical abilities.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're a goddamned magical being. Your sister, Rose, is, too. Most of your friends are, actually. Magical jackasses tend to gravitate towards one another, you suppose. You're the heat subset of magic; you can control fire and earth. Most of your other friends are the other type: cold. _They_ control the wind and water. There are many more nuances to this classification system, but you don't care enough to explain it all. Besides, the nuances don't matter. If you can perform any sort of magic, you're automatically labeled as an enemy of the United States of America.

It's this big, complex political movement. The whole thing started two years ago, when the government announced the Great Offense Program, which mandated that all legal identification list magical abilities. Anyone with a check next to their abilities slot is fucked forever. Up, down, left, right, and sideways. You're fucked no matter what you do; you could find the secret to immortality, and the world will ignore you until some goddamned "normal" fucker finds it.

Your thoughts come to a screeching halt at the sound of the door opening. The bells tied to the door clang together, echoing in your head at a volume far above the usual. Someone is pissed; they'd have to be to slam the door that fucking hard. You tug at the collar of your shirt and hold the fabric against your neck. It's softer and more malleable than it should be, seeing as it's supposed to be formal. Your gaze, which is hidden behind your usual shades, drifts upwards. It's not really your business, but you're curious; you'd like to know who disturbed your uneventful day.

Your answer, as you'd expect, stands in the doorway.

The figure framed against the light of the outside world isn't exactly tall. Sizing it up in comparison with the doorframe, you'd guess it belongs to someone no more than five foot five. Five foot six, if you're feeling generous.

As the door closes, the lighting offers you a more useful overview. Admittedly stocky, masculine build. Brown skin. Grey eyes. Messy black hair. An angular jaw, which morphs into a rather round chin. Thick, furrowed brows. When he approaches the desk and begins to speak, you find that his voice is loud and scratchy, yet oddly pleasant. It's neither high nor low pitched. "You can't just book my act and then make me park halfway across this fucking godforsaken continent," he growls, tugging on the left strap of his muted red backpack. "HEY!" he shouts, and you instinctively recoil. "Any fuckers in here care to tell me where I can talk to someone? No?"

You pull your shirt's collar so that it presses against your skin more than before. You try to sink backwards and become part of the sofa you're sitting on.

When the stranger's eyes finally stop sweeping across the room, however, they land on you. He approaches and, while you're a solid half a foot taller than him, you can't help but feel intimidated. Your heart races, and each beat sounds like a gunshot. Instinct prompts you to prepare for an attack. You ready yourself to take a blow, yet none comes.

Instead, you're lured from your shell by a surprisingly soft voice. It's still a bit loud and scratchy, but it seems far removed from the disgruntled shouting from before. "You look like you know a decent amount of shit. Where in this entire ocean of indescribable fuck can I find someone to talk to?" His commentary is expressive and transparent, something you've always valued.

Nonetheless, you know nothing on the topic. You allow yourself a huff and a shrug.

"Really?" You prepare for him to grill you, as people are wont to do. You pull your knock-off iPad, which you like to call an iCrap, from your bag and ready yourself. Your finger hovers over a button, which, when pressed, automatically spits out a load of bullshit. All of the text amounts to little more than, "I'm not fond of speaking, don't care what you think, and will not put up with your head-up-your-ass shit about therapy."

Instead, you're greeted with a pleasant surprise. Rather than ask you some sort of stupid, invasive question, he offers you a bemused, albeit somewhat confused smile. "Okay. Let me try this again. My name's Karkat. I do cheap magic tricks to amuse a handful of easily-impressed people and get paid to do so. I was hired to entertain the kids at this fucking dump, and I got an email this morning. It sounds a lot like they dumped me for some other fuck-for-brains, but I don't know until I talk to someone. You _sure_ you don't know some fart-wafting fuck-waffle I could talk to?"

Again, you shrug. Years of practice and necessity have taught you how to type with a combination of speed, ease, and accuracy. After a few seconds, you let the computer spit out what you want to say. "Look, buddy, I just come here because my sister teaches knitting to the old farts around here. I don't know jack shit about how this place works. The reception desk is around front; you came in the back way. Maybe that helps. Maybe not, but that's all I can really tell you."

"Hm." The sound rises from deep within his throat. "Shit. Fuck. Damn. Thanks, jackhole. I'll never forget you." He says this with a dismissive wave, though there's a poignant smirk on his face. You feel as if the commentary is supposed to be sarcastic, but you can't bother yourself enough to actually evaluate it.

Instead, as this stranger, Karkat Vantas, departs, you fiddle with your tablet. You open up one of the many mindless games you have installed, and occupy yourself with the pointless tasks it sets forth for you.

* * *

 Your name is Rose Mary Lalonde, and you like to keep idle chitchat to a minimum when you're working. To mindlessly prattle on about pointless matters is nothing more than a waste of time, and you're not exactly here because you love teaching wary old people how to make low-quality knit goods. No, you're here to do your job and get paid; you always save or spend half of your earnings, and invest the other half into your local Safe Net Alliance. After all, supporting the ongoing war against the Grand Offense Project is a noble cause. It's also a personal cause, seeing as _you_ are a magical being.

Of course, that's neither here nor there. When people ask you how _exactly_ you get your final knitted goods to look so nice, you will invariably inform them that a good product comes from a skilled hand. This is true. You are quite proud of your knitting abilities; however, you are also not below using a bit of witchcraft to add a bit of character. Why hand-knit those decorative floral touches when you can just conjure a few up?

12:25. Your eyes wander away from the clock mounted above the door just as it opens.

You find yourself catching a glimpse of a woman so beautiful you must call her, as Dave would say, "fucking damned gorgeous." She has a tall, elegant figure, and her short hair is a healthy, shining black. Her odd, jade green lipstick compliments her flawless, dark brown skin. "There was a sign outside pointing me to this room for a knitting course," she explains, her voice soft but commanding. It takes you a few minutes to overcome your initial shock and respond to her commentary.

"Yeah," you grumble, "This is the knitting room. Knitting... Class..." Heat rushes to your cheeks.

She graciously overlooks this development. "My name is Kanaya Maryam," she explains, "I came here with a friend of mine, and I figured I'd get some knitting practice in while I was here. Who knows how long _he'll_ be."

You laugh, though the joke wasn't that funny. You're not even sure it was supposed to be a joke. "Yes," you say this, take a deep breath, and regather your wits. "Well, how much experience do you have?"

"Not much," she admits, pulling from her purse a tangled mess of yarn. Initially, you assume this is just a disheveled skein. This assumption is quickly proven wrong. "This was my last attempt."

Again, you laugh. This time, though, it's genuine. You know you're not supposed to laugh at customers, but this is the most amusing attempt at knitting you've ever seen. You can see a few stitches, but it's obvious that Kanaya needs more than a little guidance. All things considered, though, you're not exactly opposed to being the one to provide that guidance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More will be explained in later chapters, obviously.** I hope you enjoyed this little bit, though. This won't be the usual format (dual perspective) but I used it here. If you want to do anything with this, feel free to!


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